


A Tweed Slipper

by kakera



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Lost Souls - Poppy Z. Brite
Genre: Gift Fic, M/M, Possession, discorporated angels, every other word is an f word, i can't believe i'm posting this shit here, prompt fic of sorts, steve finn is having a bad day, written to cure writer's block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 15:31:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11786097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakera/pseuds/kakera
Summary: Steve Finn wasn't sure exactly how he'd ended up in the middle of a stone circle on the night of a new moon, only that he'd somehow lost a slipper and since when the f*** did he wear slippers?





	A Tweed Slipper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sazzykins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sazzykins/gifts).



> I've spent all day staring blankly at various WIPs (and various blank word documents) and then grumbled to birthday girl Sazzykins about it, which led to talk of the ineffable husbands meeting Steve and Ghost.  
> Since writing ridiculous stories sometimes helps with writer's block, I asked her to give me a location, an object, and three words/phrases.  
> She reponded with 'Stonehenge', 'a slipper', 'fire', 'new moon', and 'why'
> 
> And this happened.  
> Which is great, because I'd spent a proportion of the day trying to write said friend a birthday fanfic
> 
> Therefore....happy birthday fren?

Steve Finn wasn't sure _exactly_ how he'd ended up in the middle of a stone circle on the night of a new moon, only that he'd somehow lost a slipper and since when the fuck did he wear slippers?

He looked down at his feet, scowling at the rest of his clothes: a proper set of striped pyjamas, an ugly as fuck tartan dressing gown, and of course _the goddamned tweed slipper._

Why the fuck was he dressed like an old man?

' _I'll have you know this is highly fashionable',_ said a very English voice, which appeared to have come from inside his head.

Against any logic, Steve smacked the side of his own head, as if to turn out whatever was whispering there.

' _That won't work, I'm afraid. I'm just borrowing you for a few minutes more...'_

"What the actual _fuck_ is going on?"

Steve kicked off the other slipper and snatched it up from the ground, squinting through the darkness.

"Ghost?"

Where was Ghost? Last thing Steve remembered was that dumb bookshop Ghost had gone dragged him into, and Ghost turning the pages of some crumbling tome with gloved-fingered reverence (the bookseller had _insisted_ Ghost put on some stupid gloves in order to leaf through the stupid book).

And now here he was, on his own.

...where the fuck was he?

 _'Stonehenge,'_ said the voice.

"The fuck's a stone henge?" Steve demanded. As if to punctuate his question with the anger it deserved, he slapped the nearest stone with the sole of the slipper. "And where the fuck's my other slipper?!"

 _'Stonehenge, in Wiltshire. And it's **my** other slipper. We lost it in a field on the way here. But time is of the essence, young man. As am I, presently.'_ The voice laughed at itself in amusement.

Steve growled. If he didn't have the slipper grasped in his hands, he would have _punched_ the stone. Instead, he bent the slipper, intent on snapping the sole in half, just to spite the voice in his head.

Steve was fed up with this supernatural bullshit.

Sure, Ghost was full of that shit too, but that was Ghost. It was okay when it was Ghost.

But this was too fucking weird.

"Someone had _better_ tell me what the _fuck_ is happening..."

As if the universe actually wanted to give him an answer for a change, a pair of lights appeared in the distance, accompanied by the sound of....

Steve frowned.

Was that... _Queen_?

Steve stared at the lights as they neared, then blinked and looked away as their brightness stung his eyes after the darkness of the...wherever the fuck they were.

 _'Here they come, yours and mine,'_ said the voice, somewhat more cheerful than it had been a few minutes ago.

"The fuck are you talking about," Steve muttered.

 _'You thought of him the moment I said it, didn't you?'_ The voice was smug now, that kind of know-it-all tone that had never failed to piss Steve the fuck off.

The lights came nearer, and nearer, until Steve's ears picked up the soft hum of an engine.

_'CAN ANYBODY FIND ME....SOMEBODY TOOOOOOO--'_

"LOOOOOOOOVE!" sang the car's occupants, spilling out of the vehicle the moment it stopped, and hurrying into the circle, flashlights in their hands.

Steve stared.

"...Ghost?"

"Steve!" Ghost grinned as he rushed forward. "I knew you'd be okay."

"Where the--what the _fuck_ is--"

"Angel?" spoke the driver of the car, worried and uncertain.

(He was wearing sunglasses. In the dark. Like some goth weeb or another of those goddamn fucking vampires, Steve thought.)

Suddenly Steve found his mouth talking without him, the voice previously inside his head coming forth from his lips.

"I'm right here, dear boy. Did you bring it?"

Steve wanted to ask what 'it' was, but he found he hadn't control over his body anymore. He found himself walking closer to the sunglasses guy, and was glad that Ghost was following.

"Right here," Ghost pulled a book from his bag.

...The same _fucking_ book from earlier.

"Do handle it with care, that's a very valuable publication," said the voice with Steve's mouth.

Finding himself capable of using his own body again, Steve smacked himself over the head with the slipper, then swore.

 _"Fuck!_ What the fuck is going on?! Ghost???"

Ghost smiled ruefully. "You know how we were both kinda stoned in that shop?"

"The way things are going, I reckon I'm still stoned."

"I kind of discorporated an angel. By mistake."

"....what the _fuck_ do you mean you--" Steve sighed. "You know what? Never mind. Fuck it. Do whatever the fuck you've got to do so we can go home."

The sunglasses guy looked at Ghost over the top of his frames. "You might want to step back a bit."

Ghost did so, grabbing Steve's (the voice's?) sleeve and tugging him back, too.

"Who's this guy, Ghost?" Steve asked? In the glare of Ghost's flashlight, he could see the guy wore a suit.

"This is Mister Crowley," said Ghost. "He's Mister Fell's friend."

"Mister Fell? That stuffy old-- _Dear Ghost, it's Aziraphale to you, please."_

Steve clapped his hand over his mouth when the voice came out of it, interrupting his words.

Ghost sighed. "Mister Aziraphale, I really wish you wouldn't do that."

Flames suddenly leapt up from the ground in front of them, and Crowley stepped back from the fire, lips twisted in a self-satisfied manner that might have been smug had the next words out of his mouth not been, "This is going to work, right, angel?"

Steve's hand moved from his mouth of its own accord, and the voice was using his mouth again.

"Of course. This boy is very talented."

Steve's hand rose (again, of its own accord) to rest upon Ghost's shoulder.

"Go ahead then, young Ghost. Crowley will do the rest."

"This had better work..." Crowley fixed his gaze upon Steve as Ghost began reading from the book.

Steve didn't understand what Ghost was saying, and as Crowley stared at him, he was sure he saw a glint of yellow behind the dark shades, but considering Ghost had just been talking of discorporating angels, he wasn't going to question it. This night was too fucking weird, and Steve would have stomped off if he had any idea where the fuck he was, or where the nearest road was, or even had the ability to move his own fucking body.

Instead he was stuck there, fuming with anger, unable to move whilst Ghost recited some gobbledygook and this shady Mister Crowley figure stared at him.

Steve stared back across the flames, as challengingly as he could muster when he couldn't physically move.

His body felt weird, actually, as if someone was... _wearing_ him, and was trying to peel him off.

Ghost stopped reading and closed the book, tucking it back into his bag. Then he lifted his pale gaze to Crowley with a look of expectance.

Crowley stared harder at Steve, and winced, focusing on the stare behind the glare, then on the space just to Steve's left.

Steve's hand squeezed Ghost's shoulder of its own accord, and then slipped down to grasp Ghost's hand of his own volition as the peeling sensation intensified.

Ghost squeezed back, and suddenly there was a fizzing, popping sound, and Steve felt as though someone had just stepped _out_ of him.

Steve looked to his left, and saw the bookseller standing there, dressed in the same clothes as he was.

"The f--"

"Angel! Thank Go--The De--Whoever!" Crowley didn't seem to remember the fire, because he walked straight through it and tugged the bookseller into a hug.

"It's quite alright now, dear Crowley," Aziraphale patted Crowley's shoulder. "Now, I believe if we hurry, we'll catch that rerun of _Gardener's World_."

Crowley stepped back and grinned. "There's a bottle of Chateau Lafite 1865 that's been _waiting_ for a special occasion."

Aziraphale smiled. "Come along then..." He glanced at Steve and Ghost. "We'll give you boys a lift back to your hotel."

Steve stared at him. Hotel? What--Of course. He and Ghost were on a vacation of sorts. Well, they'd gone to London to play a gig for some fancy-ass alternative club run by some rich kid, and Ghost had wanted to take a road trip afterwards. Which had led them into Wiltshire, England, on the way to Somerset and some mystical magic town Miz Caitlin had told Ghost about. Somehow they'd ended up in a weird old bookshop, and _somehow_ that had led to Steve being here. In the middle of a stone circle, on the night of a new moon (he didn't know how he knew it, he just _did_ ), wearing old man nightclothes. And no fucking slippers.

Steve looked down at his feet, scowling.

"I have a spare pair of slippers in the car, young man," said Aziraphale, tucking his hand into the crook of Crowley's arm.

"Angel, there's no--"

"There is," Aziraphale smiled, ushering his companion around the fire. "Deal with the fire, won't you dear boy? We don't want any mishaps."

Crowley sighed, and the fire was suddenly gone.

Steve looked at Ghost, silently begging for an explanation, because if he had to ask for one, he was going to start shouting. And swearing. And getting _really fucking mean._

"I discorporated Mister Aziraphale, who possessed you to save himself, and sent me to find Mister Crowley so we could meet here and uh... _re_ corporate him?" Ghost blinked.

"Close enough," Aziraphale chuckled. "Now Crowley dear, why were you listening to Queen? I thought Adam fixed that..."

"The Bentley isn't the same," Crowley huffed, leading Aziraphale out of the circle. "If it's not Queen, it's not the same."

"I understand, my dear."

Ghost squeezed Steve's hand. "Want to go?"

"Do we really have any choice?" Steve still had no idea where the fuck they were in relation to their hotel.

"Not really," Ghost smiled and led him towards the edge of the circle.

Steve frowned. "...Did he say _Bentley_?"

"Yeah," Ghost grinned. "It's real cool. I got to sit up front."

He shone the flashlight onto the car as they left the circle, and Steve stared.

"She's a fucking beauty!" He all but dragged Ghost closer, taking in the gleaming, flawless bodywork.

"She is, isn't she?" Crowley appeared at Steve's side, smiling like a proud parent. "An original. One careful owner from new."

The 'one careful owner' thing didn't make any sense, but nothing made sense anymore, and Steve was too done with this evening to bother questioning.

"Man!" Steve stole the flashlight from Ghost's hand and took a circuit of the car, admiring it from every angle possible, considering the darkness. "She's--Fuck, compared to this beauty, the T-bird is a fuckin' crone."

"T-bird?" Crowley tilted his head.

"Yeah, she's a pile of trash," Steve said fondly, pulling out his wallet, which was inexplicably in his dressing gown pocket. There was a picture of the T-bird in there, tucked alongside a dumb picture of himself and Ghost that they'd had taken in a photo booth some years back. Steve took out the photo and showed it to Crowley

"Nice wheels," Crowley nodded. "You're working on that rust across the rims, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but it keeps coming back," Steve said, shoving the picture, and his wallet, away again.

Crowley smiled knowingly. "I don't think you'll have trouble anymore."

"Yeah? She's nothing like this beauty..." Steve looked at the Bentley in admiration.

"My girl is second to none," Crowley grinned.

Aziraphale chose that moment to approach, a recently-materialised pair of slippers in his hands.

"I think you'll find these your size, young man," he said, setting them on the ground before Steve. "Are you all ready? _Gardeners World_ won't wait, you know."

"Shit, I didn't set the video..." Crowley sighed. "Alright, everyone jump in. Careful, mind. Those seats are original."

They piled into the car, Ghost tugging Steve into the back seat whilst Aziraphale reclined in the passenger seat, clearly very used to being there.

The car didn't make a sound when it left, and as soon as it got back onto the road, the nighttime scenery whizzed by much faster than Steve thought was possible in a car of this age.

( _We'll keep on fighting to the end_ , Freddie Mercury sang through speakers Steve couldn't see).

He frowned, troubled until Ghost's hand found his.

Then everything was okay again. Of course it was okay. Ghost was...well, he knew what was going on, and he seemed okay with it. And if it was okay with Ghost, it was okay with Steve (even if he didn't understand half of what had happened tonight).

The Bentley eventually pulled up outside a dingy hotel, and Ghost tugged Steve out.

"Ah, my book, young Ghost?" said Aziraphale, alighting from the car with surprising grace. He held out his hands.

"Aw yeah, sorry Mister Aziraphale," Ghost dug the book out of his bag, handing it over.

Aziraphale ran a hand over the cover, nodding as if to reassure himself that it was okay.

Getting out of the car, Crowley leaned against the hood and tilted his sunglasses down to look at them with yellow, reptilian eyes.

"...Angel? Mr Finn's clothes?" he prompted softly.

"Of course, forgive me," Aziraphale glanced up and down the street, then Steve felt a weird sensation, and his clothes were suddenly his own again: holey jeans and a t-shirt he'd not changed for a few days. And those godawful slippers were fucking boots again! Yes!

"'bout fuckin' time," Steve muttered, trying not to show his delight (and trying to pretend that he had _not_ noticed that Mr Crowley's eyes looked like they belonged on a snake. Or a serpent, which is a word Steve didn't normally use, yet it fit Mr Crowley rather well).

"Sorry for the inconvenience," Aziraphale smiled appeasingly. "I really hate to go the possession route, but after your boyfriend discorporated me, I really had no other choice if I wanted to catch the next episode of _The Archers_."

"He's very into his radio right now," sighed Crowley, fondness in his gaze.

"I'm sorry for the discorporation," Ghost said. "I shouldn't have spoken aloud."

Aziraphale shook his head. "Most people wouldn't have harmed a hair on my head with that spell, dear Ghost. You, however, have a lot of magic in you. So be careful in future."

"I will. Sorry."

"No harm done." Aziraphale patted him, and turned back to the car. "Take care, you two. Home then, Crowley?"

"Angel." Crowley held the passenger door, closing it carefully once Aziraphale was inside and rounding the bonnet to the driver's side.

Then with a chorus of, _We are the champions!_ rising up from the invisible speakers, the Bentley rolled off down the road and into the night.

Steve stared at it.

Then he turned to Ghost and stared at him instead.

"... _boyfriend_?"

"Mister Aziraphale made an assumption."

Steve sighed. "Boyfriend, Ghost?"

Ghost looked at him with a little hurt in his gaze. "I told you, Mr Az--"

"It was a suggestion, not a question." Steve interrupted, looking away. Aziraphale had been right, back at Stonehenge: he _had_ thought of someone, the moment he'd mentioned 'yours and mine'. That someone had been Ghost.

And Steve had been so fucking overjoyed to see him back there that if Aziraphale hadn't had control of his body, he might have kissed him.

Fuck it, he _would_ have kissed him.

...fuck it.

Steve grabbed Ghost's chin and smashed their lips together.

Ghost responded by pulling Steve into a hug as he kissed back.

Steve felt as if he was being possessed all over again, but this was a _good_ possession, as if Ghost was crawling into his head and pushing all the bad stuff away, to make room for the taste of molasses and cool autumn mornings and pine needles in the old graveyard back home, and long rides out in the T-bird and stretching out on the hood smoking weed someplace off the highway, their fingers tangling as they passed the joint between them.

To make room for himself, and the feelings Steve usually pretended weren't there, because he was never entirely sure what to do with them.

When they parted, Ghost smiled.

"That's a yes," he said softly. "To your suggestion."

Steve sighed, slinging an arm around Ghost's shoulders. "I dunno what the fuck happened tonight, Ghost, but tomorrow night we're finding a bar and getting hammered like _normal_ guys."

"Anything you like, Steve."

And just like that, everything was back to how it usually was.

Except when Steve led Ghost into their hotel room, the twin beds had been pushed together and strewn with rose petals.

"What the fu--Ugh. Fuck this. I'm going to sleep."

Steve kicked off his boots and wriggled out of his jeans before falling face-first on the sheets. He wanted to sleep and forget about tonight's weird shit.

Taking a little more time, Ghost slipped off his sneakers and dumped his jeans on the chair by the dressing table before he climbed onto the bed. He reached tentatively for Steve, who abruptly pulled him close, chin rested on top of Ghost's head.

"Go'sleep," Steve muttered. This day was _finished_. Tomorrow better be fucking normal or they were going _straight home_.

Ghost smiled to himself, throwing one arm around Steve's hips.

"Yeah, 'night Steve."

And they lay there a while, neither quite sleeping, neither quite awake, both wondering if things would have eventually worked out this way if they'd never set foot in that bookshop.

Then Steve drifted off to sleep, and Ghost soon followed.

 

"Dear, were the rose petals really necessary?" Aziraphale asked, as the credits of _Gardener's World_ rolled up the screen.

"Saw it in a film," Crowley smiled guiltily. "It looked romantic."

"I'm uncertain whether the young Finn boy knows what romantic is."

"Give him time, angel."

Aziraphale smirked. "You're fond of him."

"You're fond of Ghost."

"Maybe it wouldn't hurt if we kept an eye on them, every now and again..."

"Or we could finish this wine and go to bed?" Crowley motioned to their glasses, which were suddenly full again. A few too many miracles today, he knew, but who was even keeping count anymore.

Aziraphale smiled. "My dear, that's the best suggestion I've heard all day."

And when they had finished their wine, and he found rose petals strewn across their bed, he wasn't at all surprised.


End file.
